I see the roof of the house long before Hadrian does. He doesn't know what to look for. I do. I have spent the happiest seven years of my life in this place, and then a couple of unhappiest ones, trying to leave it. I have learned this forest inside out, with all its traps and dangers, first in order to survive, and then to find my way out of it.

I never intended to go back. There're no graves to visit. I couldn't have dug them in the hard earth, so I dragged my parents' and Grandpa's bodies to the river and the stream took them away. There's nothing left for me here, and yet my heart clenches at the familiar sight.

It's been twelve years, and the area around the house that Grandpa kept clean of vegetation is now filled with overgrown bushes and young trees. I see the roof before the rest of the house underneath the tall spruce tree. Some of the tiles are missing. The walls are covered with wild ivy. Finally, Hadrian notices it, too.

"What is?..." He stops, squinting into the darkness. "Is it --"

I let go of him and continue on my own. It's not the place nor the time for whatever snarky comments he is about to offer, and he seems to sense it, too, because he says nothing else.

Closer to the house, the smell of rotting wood reaches my nostrils. Years out here in the forest, with no maintenance—it's a miracle the house is still standing. I push the door, and it swings inward with a creak.

I have to bend a little to enter, and this more than anything drives home how many years have passed. Grandpa didn't need to bend to come through this door, so I must be taller now than he was. The room that seemed so big to me once looks tiny now, the ceiling so low I can touch it with my hand. The damp wood of the walls looks black. The stone furnace takes most of one corner—originally made of white polished stones, it's now grey. Grandpa built it himself, like everything else here. He was a carpenter, just like I am, so building stoves wasn't his strong suit. There was always an awful lot of smoke inside the room when we used it for cooking or warmth, and in good weather we preferred to make a fire outside and cook there.

He was good in making furniture, though. Two beds—one for him, the other for Grumio and me—still stand by the far wall. The straw mattresses lie on the floor, probably dragged off by wild animals. The rocking chair lies on its side by the crude wooden table, and next to it lie two overturned small chairs that I and Grumio made by ourselves under Grandpa's supervision.

Goosebumps rise on my arms as the memories come rushing back.

I have forgotten so much.

The floor creaks and I turn around to see Hadrian step carefully over the high doorstep, favoring his hurt leg. He doesn't need to bend to get through the door. He stops for a moment, looking around.

"Is this where you used to live?"

"Yes," I say.

He limps to the closest mattress by the wall. "And this, I assume, is our bed?" He prods the mattress with one foot, and then yelps and jumps back as some small animal darts out of the hole in its side and runs outside. "Just perfect," he breathes out. "Rats. You've brought us here to be eaten alive?"

"We're more likely to eat them than the other way around."

He stares at me. "Please tell me it's a joke."

"I told you, I'm not a joking type," I say. "I'll go check if there's any old wood left."

I move to the door and he steps aside to let me pass.

"Aren't you going to tie me up or something?" he says. "Like you did in the castle? I've begun to get used to be treated like a livestock."

I shrug. "No need in that. You won't find your way out of this forest. If you're dumb enough to try, by all means, go ahead."

I go outside and head for the small shed behind the house, where Grandpa used to keep his tools and the wood for the fire. Surprisingly, there are still some logs stacked in a heap under the little roof, and I stop for a moment, almost seeing my younger self, aged eight or nine, stacking them, preparing for winter.

I pick a few of them and return into the cabin. As my eyes adjust, I look around and find Hadrian lying on the mattress by the door. I crouch down, place the logs on the floor, and look at him closely.

Amazingly, he's asleep. I expected complains, whining about the conditions, the smell, the temperature, demands to at least return the mattresses to the beds and check them for more rodents, but it seems he had no energy left for any of that. He's lying on his side, his face turned slightly up, one hand under his cheek, breathing deeply, frowning in his sleep. Despite the bruises and the scratches on his face, there's something innocent and vulnerable about him when he's asleep.

I reach out and move away the long strand of hair that fell across his forehead. Then I catch myself and withdraw my hand. He stirs, and the crease between his brows disappears, leaving his face smooth and peaceful. I watch it, mesmerized. For the first time, I feel complete with my decision to snatch him away from his impending execution. Perhaps I have betrayed Oliver by doing so, but letting Hadrian be killed despite all my instincts would have felt like betraying myself.

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